An Even Trade
by type40badwolf
Summary: "Nice car." There's a seductive kind of appreciation in her voice, but the leather-clad girl, who can't be more than 20 years old, clearly has eyes only for the Impala. "Yeah," Dean answers, slowly, the single word a greater effort than lifting Sam's body. His eyes travel wearily from the girl, her leg half-lifted to clamber onto her motorcycle, to his own car, and back again.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. If I did, Destiel would be canon by now and Sam would have a decent, still-living girlfriend/boyfriend.**

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"_Nice_ car."

There's a seductive kind of appreciation in her voice, but the leather-clad girl, who can't be more than 20 years old, clearly has eyes only for the Impala.

"Yeah," Dean answers, slowly, the single word a greater effort than lifting Sam's body. His eyes travel wearily from the girl, her leg half-lifted to clamber onto her motorcycle, to his own car, and back again.

Something in his voice must catch her attention, as she drags her gaze away from the car to Dean's face for the first time. "Hey, buddy," she says, her brow wrinkling in sudden concern. "You okay?"

She's got a pretty distinct accent, Dean thinks. Maybe from Louisiana. What's she doing all the way out here at a roadhouse in the middle of Nevada? "I'm fine," he forces out, clearing his throat. "Hey, how old are you, kid?"

"Twenty-two," she replies, still not convinced. "If you need me to, I can call a doctor. You look like you hit your head pretty bad…"

"No, I'm fine, really." Dean shakes himself. Twenty-two. Twenty-two. "Tell me, what's a kid your age doing so far up north?"

She purses her lips, suddenly irritable. "None of your business." She swings her leg over the seat of the motorcycle, ready to leave, but can't resist looking at the Impala one more time. "Real nice car, though," she says, almost wistfully. "Used to dream about having one of those when I was a kid."

_Twenty-two_, Dean thinks. _Yes. Yes, she's perfect_.

"You can have it, if you want."

It's the clearest his voice has sounded since he started talking to her, and it catches her attention like a kick in the ass. She freezes, her keys inches away from the bike's ignition, and turns her head to look at him slowly, as if suddenly afraid of him. "What?"

"You can have it. I don't…" He turns, glances at the empty passenger seat and immediately looks away, swallowing hard. "I don't really need it anymore. I'm kinda all I got, and it's too big for just one person. You look like the kinda kid who's got friends. You got friends?"

While he's been talking, she's peeled herself off the motorcycle, taken two tentative steps towards the car as if she can't believe what she's hearing. "Um… y-yeah, I got friends." She stops, shakes herself and frowns again, taking a step backwards and looking at him ruefully. "No, but I can't- I can't just take your car. I'm sure you got places to go."

"I have no idea where I'm goin', sweetheart," and Dean hears a hint of his old self in the words. "Tell you what. Give me your bike, you take the car, we'll call it an even trade."

She blinks, stares at him like she doesn't believe him. "Really? That thing for…" She looks at the Impala and bites her lip. "_That_ thing?"

"Yeah, sure!" Dean steps closer, his own keys dangling in his hand like a dog treat, drawing her eyes, knowing he'd already given up his home before he'd even opened his mouth to say what needed to be said. "But I have one condition."

"Sure, anything. What do you need?"

Dean swallowed, and he couldn't stop his voice from catching when the words came out. "Take care of her. She's kinda my baby. This car's been my home for as long as I can remember, and she comes with some problems, some memories. Some history."

"What kinda history?"

"The kind you're better off not knowing about. Just… just…" Stupid fucking tear. He wipes it away forcefully and clears his throat, ignoring the bewildered concern on her face. "Just take care of her, okay? There's… there's some army men in the ashtray, and the air conditioner rattles because there's Lego's inside, and there are these scratches, somewhere on the floorboards. Initials. They won't cause you any problems. You just gotta… you gotta make sure they stay there, because…" He's having a hard time breathing, and his head hurts just behind his eyes. "Because there are people who've lived and died in that car, and you gotta keep them alive. You gotta promise me that you're gonna keep them alive."

She doesn't blink, doesn't say anything, for a long time. Just watches his face, all traces of suspicion and confusion gone from her expression, leaving behind only awe. Dean just breathes, almost angrily, trying to get himself under control, silently begging her to say yes, also secretly hoping that she'll say no, wondering what the hell she's thinking beneath that unreadable exterior.

Finally, she lifts one hand, wraps it around not only the keys but Dean's fist as well. "Okay," she says, quiet and firm and Dean feels, somehow, like she gets it. "I promise."

The keys to her bike are resting on its seat. He takes them, still carefully controlling his breath, and swings his leg over. It's a good bike, old, sure, but big, and sturdy. Probably loud and fast, too. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her run her fingers delicately over the door, as if afraid to dirty the paint job. Slowly, almost nervously, she pulls on the door handle and Dean hears the familiar squeak for the last time. She turns around when he turns on the ignition and kicks up the stand. "Hey," she calls over the roar of the engine. "Whats your name?"

"Dean," he yells back. "Whats yours?"

"Mary!"

Mary. "Perfect," he calls, and then he's gone, speeding away on his new motorcycle, alone.

Mary watches him until he's just a dot on the flat desert horizon, then slides into the seat of his- no, her new car. The leather is nice, a little worn in places, but soft, and it smelled like whiskey and old denim. There in the ashtray was the little green army man; crudely carved into the floorboards were the letters "D.W." and "S.W." D for Dean, she thinks. Who was S?

Guess she'll never know. Reverently, she slides the key into the ignition. The air conditioner comes on first, blowing like a hurricane with- yes, there's the rattle he warned her about. And then… the engine.

A slow grin creeps across her face as the furious growl rips through the car, probably through the roadhouse, too, vibrating through her ribs like an electric jolt. "Oh, hell yeah," she whispers.

There's a cassette tape sticking out of the player. She glances down at the D on the floor, so clearly carved by a child, her finger hovering over the tape, and she feels like she should just hurry up and drive already but she can't really figure out what just happened and, if she's honest with herself, she doesn't really know where she's going either. "Good luck, Dean," she says finally, with a deep breath.

She punches the cassette with her finger and it slides in with a several clicks and a whirring sound. and she cant help but laugh when "Back in Black" begins to play, a little too quietly for her taste. Before she does anything else, she turns up the volume.

A few old drunks in the roadhouse cheer at the sound of screeching tires, AC/DC, and a V8 engine tearing out of the parking lot and down the street. The Impala growls and roars until it disappears altogether. Nobody knows where its going, but, really…

Nobody ever did.


End file.
